


This Man Is Not My Son

by Jakkdawz



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), dream team smp
Genre: Angst?, Explosions, Family Dynamics, Gen, Hybrid Characters, Idk what I’m doing, L’Manburg, Murder, Pogtopia, blood and violence depicted, manburg, semi-realistic, spoiler warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 07:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27639425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jakkdawz/pseuds/Jakkdawz
Summary: A dark hallway.A small door frame.And a room, with the song of what once was, scattered along the walls.A broken song.An unfinished symphony.
Relationships: ALL PLATONIC
Kudos: 17





	This Man Is Not My Son

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!  
> Thanks for taking an interest in my story!  
> This is my first time writing anything solid in at least a year, and my first time publishing a fanfiction like this to the public!  
> Not really sure how AO3 works, as I’ve only ever used it to read fanfic, not write and publish, so I apologize if anything is weird here!  
> —  
> Now, some preface to the story.  
> This story has major spoilers for the Pogtopia vs Manburg War that just occurred on November 16th in the Dream SMP, and while this story doesn’t follow the plot to a T, there are some major spoilers still prevalent. At least, in the first chapter.  
> There is also a major character death and blood/violence/slight gore described, so don’t read if you aren’t comfortable with that!  
> I’m not planning on having this fanfic follow what happened and will happen in the SMP exactly. This is more of an AU than a fanfic that reflects actual events in canon!  
> I will be using some major plot points that have happened in canon, however, so there will still be spoilers!  
> That being said, in this fanfic, there is permadeath, and is semi-realistic, so there are no inventories. The characters can carry what they can in bags and with their own two hands. Regular Minecraft mobs still exist. There are characters that are hybrids- such as Technoblade being half-pig, Philza having wings, Fundy being half-fox, etc. etc.  
> In this story, Philza had adopted the orphaned Wilbur Soot and Technoblade (the two are not blood related) when they were extremely young, and raised them as his own.  
> I will get into more details as the story progresses, and if you guys ask for it!  
> Sorry for this long bit. Enjoy!

A dark hallway.  
A small door frame.  
And a room, with the song of what once was, scattered along the walls.  
A broken song.  
An unfinished symphony.

A tall man, clad in brown and black, stood silently. Still, as if he was not there. His dark gaze far away as he faced the entry to the hallway.  
The carpet that began just before him shone bright yellow. A yellow that reflected happiness the man did not feel.  
He had been here so many times.  
But deep down... he knew.  
He knew today was the day.  
This moment.  
This small moment of time.

Then, moving. The man stepped forwards slowly, head up, gaze fixed towards the end of the semi-lit hallway. The crackling of the few torches suspended on the walls was the only sound the man heard, other than the slamming of his heartbeat in his ears.

The man extended both of his hands to his sides, allowing his fingertips to ride along the smooth, cool walls of the narrow tunnel.

As he got closer to the end of the hallway, he began to hear other noises, too.  
Screaming.  
The cracks and pops of firework rockets.  
The sounds of death and pain and misery.

He stopped. The crackling of the deadly rockets being fired relentlessly echoed all around him, as if he was standing right in the middle of it.  
But he wasn’t.  
He was here.  
Outside the door that would end it all.  
The final room.

The man reached out a hand, grabbed a thick metal door handle, and pushed.  
Light.  
The brilliant glow of light flooded the mouth of the doorway and spilled out into the hallway, casting the silent man’s shadow tall behind him.  
Taller than he could ever stand.  
Taller than he had ever felt.  
The door gave easily under his push, groaning on its hinges in a cry of pain. It sounded similar to the shrieks and screams he heard just outside the walls. The screams that seemed to etch themselves into his heart.

Then, as he stepped into the room and out of the dark hallway, he began to laugh. It began low, at first. But built up until it was all he could hear. Over the pounding in his ears, the death outside, all he heard was his laughter.  
His cackling.  
Gradually the maniacal laughter ceased, leaving the man empty.  
Quiet once more.

How many times had he stood in this exact spot?  
Staring at the same god damned wall, adorned with nothing but the song and the button.

The button called to him.

The small wooden button that could end so, so many lives. Destroy everything.

End everything. 

The man reached his hand up and pushed it through his brown hair, before grabbing the dark beanie that sat upon his head and tugging it off. It was like ripping the halo from an angel’s head.  
A fallen angel.  
He let his hands, both of which held onto the beanie, fall in front of him limply.  
He could not tear his dark eyes away from the wall looming ahead of him. The wall that stood indifferent and stoic.  
The song scratched deeply into the walls, the scratches he had made with the tip of his sword what feels like lifetimes ago, screamed out at him, and he began to sing softly.

My L’Manburg.

My L’Manburg..

My L’Manburg...

I heard there was a special place.

Where men could go and emancipate...

The man trailed off. His eyes cast downwards.

His hands were trembling.

The deepness of the scratched lyrics on the pale gray walls did not reflect how deeply they had been scratched into his very soul.

His soul.

Did he, the man wondered, even have a soul anymore?

And then, a voice. 

“Wilbur.”

The sound of his heartbeat slamming inside of his skull stopped.  
That voice.  
Wilbur’s grip tightened on his beanie. The shaking in his hands and legs consumed him.

Why was that voice here?

The quiet man clad in black and brown- Wilbur- lifted his eyes from the floor, slowly turning his head and body to face the man who now occupied the mouth of the doorframe.

“Dad.”

Philza stood silently, his expression unreadable beneath his green and white bucket hat.

Grand wings towered over his head and shoulders, folded loosely behind him.

White feathers.

Wilbur’s mind wandered momentarily to the large, breathtaking feather he used to have in his possession. A gift..  
The feather that was taken from him just after this all began.  
The discs.  
The pets.  
The wars.  
What hurt the wild man most in the end, Wilbur thought, was the loss of the feather that had been gifted to him, in the flames.  
Trapped within the thin walls of a van he had once lived and prospered in.  
Gone.

The beginning of the end, he figured.

Philza stepped into the room fully, and to the side, where he relaxed his mighty wings.  
His piercing blue eyes never left Wilbur.

“What are you doing here, son?”

The older man’s voice was like poison to Wilbur’s ears.

The sweetest poison.

“Do you know what will happen when I press this button?”  
Wilbur’s voice was hollow. 

Philza did not recognize this man. 

Did not recognize this haunted, manic voice.

Philza was silent for a brief moment.  
“I do.”

A small, sick smile began to leak onto Wilbur’s face.  
His eyes shone bright with frenzy.  
“Have you heard the song, Philza?”

Philza’s jaw tensed, eyes roaming Wilbur for something, anything he could recognize.

It had been years since Wilbur had called the man anything but his father. Anything but ‘dad’.

It felt wrong, hearing his given name uttered from his son’s mouth. Something which Wilbur hadn’t done in years.

The winged man softened, reaching out to his son.

“Will, please.”  
His voice was quiet.

Desperate.

“You fought so hard to get this land back.”

The crack of a rocket striking the wall outside shook the small room.

Wilbur didn’t seem to register it.

“There was a saying, Phil.”  
Wilbur continued on.  
“... by a traitor, who was once a part of L’Manburg. A traitor I’m not sure you’ve heard of. Eret?”

Wilbur paused for a moment, and Philza inclined his head slightly forwards as a sign that he knew what Wilbur was talking about.

Phil knew of the dethroned king. The man who had chosen friendship over loyalty in the end, even after all he had done.

“He had a saying, Phil.”

Philza felt his hands go cold.  
Wilbur looked like he was about to snap.

Phil attempted to close the gap between them but it was too late.

It always seemed to be too late.

“It was never meant to be.”

Click.

Time seemed to slow down.  
The hissing echoed dryly through the entire room.

“Oh, my gods.”

Boom.

The walls around the two erupted as Philza grabbed the back of Wilbur’s cloak, violently throwing him back away from the button and the TNT.

The wall was blown inwards, and everything went black.

Philza blinked once.  
Twice.  
He was only out for a moment, but that moment had felt like an eternity.

He was lying on his stomach. Cheek in the dust upon the cracked stone ground. Coughing, he lifted his head up, blood dripping heavily from his head.  
He couldn’t feel the pain yet, but he damned sure could hear the loud ringing echoing through his skull.  
Philza pushed himself to his feet, using the wall to steady himself.

He wasn’t concerned with his own well being.

He had to find the man he had once known as his son.  
As he had once known as Wilbur Soot.

Philza raked his eyes through the crumbled room. The far wall that had housed the button now completely knocked down, showing the remains of what was once L’Manburg clear as day.

Blood.

Smoke.

Nothing.

Phil forced himself to tear his eyes away from the carnage, and his eyes found a bundle of black and brown in the opposite corner of the room Phil had woken up on.

Stumbling over rocks and debris, seeing red through the blood that had dripped into his eyes, he pulled Wilbur up into his arms, gasping.

Who was this man?

This crazed man, who had become a terrorist.

Who had set an entire country aflame.

Wilbur opened his eyes up at Phil, another smile creeping onto his face. It caused Philza to recoil, as if burned.

Wilbur sat up and turned, on his knees now as he faced Phil.

Phil was on his knees as well, chest rising and falling rapidly.

“My L’Manburg, Phil..”

Philza looked at Wilbur, their eyes nearly level with each other as they knelt, bloody and dusty, on the floor of the room that had ended it all.

“Kill me, Philza.”

Philza felt like his heart had stopped. All he could hear was the ringing in his ears…  
And Wilbur.

“What?”  
Philza’s voice felt small.  
Helpless.

“Kill me.” Wilbur’s brown eyes seemed to shine red, a harsh laugh ripping itself from his chest.

“Kill me!”  
He roared it this time, throwing the sharp diamond sword that had previously hung at his hip straight at Philza

Phil barely managed to catch it.

It was his turn to have his hands shake.

“I can’t do that, Wilbur!”  
Philza sobbed out, streaks of tears beginning to run down his dirty face.

“You’re my son!”

Was he?

Philza was gasping for breath.

Was this man, this terrorist, this killer, really his son?

No.

This man was not his son.

From the moment Philza had entered the room, he hadn’t been able to recognize the man that now knelt in front of him.

Philza took a deep, shuddering breath, and slowly climbed to his feet. Wilbur followed suit.

Philza stared down at the blade in his hands.  
It shone blue, as clear as the sky.  
So clear that he could see his reflection in the blade’s slightly scuffed surface.

His eyes lifted and gazed through the broken wall, seeing the rest of the revolutionaries and what was left of the government forces, including Dream’s forces, standing.

Those who were not locked in battle had fallen still to watch..

Wilbur took steps forward until he was directly in front of Phil.

“KILL. ME!”

This time, Wilbur’s arm swung out and struck the intact wall beside them three times, snapping Phil out of the daze he felt he had been in since he’d awoken on the ground.  
The sound of bone striking stone was sickening, but Wilbur ignored whatever pain he felt.

Phil took another steadying breath in…

out…

His body went numb as he plunged the sword clean through Wilbur’s chest, right between his ribs, straight through his heart.

Philza buried the sword to the hilt.

A sob escaped Phil’s throat as Wilbur’s body slumped into his. Philza guided him to the ground, regaining his place on his knees.

His hands were already slick with Wilbur’s blood as he guided the young man’s body to lay across his lap, his head in the winged man’s arms. The tip of the sword which stuck from Wilbur’s back grated against the dusty ground below them, and helped more thick blood gush to the floor.

In just a few seconds, Phil could feel blood soak his thighs and arms.

His knees.

His chest.

His soul.

Wilbur coughed, blood dripping from the corner of his face down to his chin

He smiled again, but this time… it was different.

He smiled a smile his son would give him when he picked him up from the ground after he’d crashed his bike.

He smiled a smile Philza would see on his son’s face after he had wrapped his arms around his small body, his wings lifting both of them easily into the sky for the first time.

It was a smile Philza recognized.

He felt his heart shatter inside of his chest, the pain he felt in his heart greater than any physical pain he could ever feel.

Wilbur lifted one of his hands, which was wet with his own blood, and placed it on Philza’s tear-streaked face.

“Run.”

And then, the hand fell, leaving a red smear that sunk deep into his skin.  
A red smear that sunk into his broken heart.

Philza looked down at Wilbur. His eyes were closed. His chest still. The sword hilt glinted up at Philza, as if mockingly... and Philza screamed.  
His wings unfurled, and he screamed.

And screamed.

And screamed.

He screamed until he couldn’t breathe. Until his throat felt like it was bleeding.  
When he couldn’t scream anymore he sobbed into Wilbur’s lifeless body, lifting the young man’s corpse fully into his arms and cradling his head, back and forth, on his knees.

After what seemed like years, Philza managed to calm down.  
He couldn’t scream anymore.  
He couldn’t cry anymore.

His clothes and skin were stained with the blood of Wilbur Soot.

The boy he had taken in at a young age.  
Had raised as his own son, along with the other boy that he had adopted.

Philza’s heart dropped once more.

His other son.

Technoblade.

Philza slowly pulled the sword from Wilbur’s body and carefully laid him back onto the cold concrete floor below them.

He would come back for his body, and would give him a proper burial.

But right now, he could not afford to lose another son.

Philza stood to heed Wilbur’s last word, and as he turned, his eyes caught something half-buried in rubble.  
A piece of dark cloth he recognized.  
That Wilbur had been in possession of before the world turned upside down.  
Not a heartbeat passed before Philza leapt down from the hole in the wall, towards the blown up remains of what once was a city.

The fighting was continuing. It had resumed as soon as the diamond sword Phil now carried met Wilbur’s soft flesh. The crack of firework rockets sounded in every direction, scattering red, white, and blue all around Philza’s vision.

And then, he saw him.

His second son.

His eldest son of two.

The young man was covered in blood and ash, most of the blood not his, hoisting the rocket launcher of a crossbow around that was responsible for all the color around him, and many of the screams of pain. Philza spread his wings and took flight momentarily, rising from the bottom of a crater, to what was left of a walkway.

He was standing on the same platform as Technoblade now, but the pig-human hybrid’s back was facing Phil.

As someone too covered in blood and armor to recognize got close, swinging their netherite axe towards Techno, the warrior reacted without a beat of hesitation, letting go of the launcher that was attached to his body through a leather strap, and pulling his netherite sword from the sheathe at his hip. He made quick work of the individual, ducking fluidly under the attacker’s axe swing and guiding his sword up, under their chest plate of netherite, and straight into their stomach, ripping up towards their chest. The person fell back off of Technoblade’s sword and to the ground, where they did not move again. Technoblade whirled and scanned his surroundings for the next attacker, before his eyes met Philza’s.

Deep red clashed with piercing blue, and time seemed to stop.

A green and white bucket hat hanging from the side of a blonde man’s head, the man’s clothes and brilliant white wings covered in blood and dust and ash. A dark gray cloak with silver diamonds etched into the bottom edge of the fabric, overtop of a green shirt and pants. A bloody diamond sword hanging loosely from his grip.

A set of floppy pink pig ears nestled in a thick of light pink hair, braided back into a long braid that reached the man’s lower back. A brilliant red cape, overtop of shiny netherite armor and a plethora of weapons, potions, and ammunition strapped to the armor. Legs and feet with the anatomy of a pig’s. A gore-covered netherite sword held tightly in one of the man’s hands.

Father and son.

Teacher and student.

Who was the teacher now? It had been years since Philza had taught Techno to fight.  
Years since he was ever able to come close to beating his eldest son in a fight.

Technoblade was distracted for one second too long, in the shock of seeing his father.

Philza just had time to scream Technoblade’s name before the pig man whirled, lifting his sword in an attempt to parry the unseen attack from a netherite blade.

Technoblade was a millisecond too slow.

Philza watched in horror as the netherite blade sliced downwards in a sharp arc, straight into a gap of Techno’s armor- where the shoulder pad met his chestplate on the right side.  
On the side Techno held his blade.

The Orphan Obliterator clattered harshly to the ground as his grip on the blade lackened, and Technoblade was taken to the ground.

Technoblade could never die.

Philza had been hearing Techno boast that since he could lift a sword.

Technoblade could never die...

Right?


End file.
